


The Story Vault

by davaia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble Collection, Drama, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Romance, Words without a home, updates whenever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/pseuds/davaia
Summary: A collection of QuiObi snippets originally posted to Tumblr—everything from three-sentence fills, to scenes upwards of a thousand words. Each chapter is standalone and comfortably settled into its  new home on AO3, waiting for the day it may or may not take root and grow into a full story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Since I have no tagging system or organization to speak of over on Tumblr, I'm moving my writing-blurbs over to AO3. (Read: so I don't have to dig through 4.6k posts to find them. Also so I don't forget they even exist at all. Both of which happen. With relative frequency.) These are the ones I could find and/or remember (see: 'also so I don't forget they even exist at all'), with others to be added as I write them. Or rediscover them.
> 
> General tags are in the main heading. Anything that merits more specific tags will have them noted at the beginning of the chapter. Most of my Tumblr-stuff is pretty tame, though.
> 
> As always, a heartfelt thank you to merry_amelie, who is essentially the Tim Gunn of this fandom.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene that kept me waffling over whether or not to make the Patrician AU QuiObi. It was meant to take place a few years down the road from the original story—possibly a _lot_ of years down the road. Once I got it out of my brain, though, I decided to keep the main AU gen.
> 
> Feel free to read it as a standalone AU where mellow AgriCorps!Master Obi-Wan reunites and reconciles with Lonely!Jedi Qui-Gon. They fall in love, then live happily and peacefully ever after. The End.

* * *

  


Qui-Gon tried not to take this constancy for granted, how—even years later—Obi-Wan still wore those heavy, high-collared Bandomeerian tunics, still wore his hair long and knotted back like he’d just come in from the sun-soaked fields. Obi-Wan set the tea tray onto the table between them, poured Qui-Gon’s cup first, and the years-long evening ritual made something loosen within the master’s chest. 

"Not many lovers?" Obi-Wan asked, teasing, picking up their conversation from dinner as if only a moment had lapsed. 

"No," Qui-Gon replied. He cast Obi-Wan a tight, tired smile. "Those years are long past." His tone was dry and almost bitter, and it slipped dangerously close to something he might consider self-pity, on any other day. 

But he was weary down to his bones that night. He’d been deprived of Obi-Wan’s tea and company for almost seven weeks now, on his miserable, fruitless chase across the Outer Rim. Qui-Gon had been on-planet for all of two hours and already that dull, empty, persistent ache in the back of his mind had eased. There was warmth and soft, blue light there now—the steady, heartbeat thrum of their bond returned to its proper state. 

The relief of it all had loosened his shoulders and tongue alike, and he felt reckless within his ease and the sheltered confines of Obi-Wan’s quarters. He laughed into his teacup, but it was a hollow sound. "Who would have this threadbare old master, anyway?" 

"I would," Obi-Wan said gently and without hesitation. His face softened when Qui-Gon’s expression furrowed in earnest confusion. "Do you really think so little of yourself, Master Jedi?" he asked then, raising his eyebrows.  

Obi-Wan set his cup down and reached across the table, only so far as to brush the tips of their fingers together. "If you would have a battered AgriCorps farmer, then yes—I would have you in an instant." 

Qui-Gon’s voice came from a thousand light-years away. "I—" He stared across the table, unblinking, uncomprehending. "You want me?" 

"Of course I do," Obi-Wan responded, and his own smile was sweet and a little sad. "Hasn’t that always been our way?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Skyywalkerfen for the ways to say "I Love You" three-sentence drabble meme.
> 
> _"On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair."_  
>   
> 

* * *

  


_Oh_ , but this is dangerous, Quinn thinks—far more dangerous than the shrapnel that invalided him back from the front all those months ago. "I love you," he blurts out, helpless against this sudden revelation.

Vicar Kenobi pauses in weeding his turnips and looks up, his young face flushed in the late afternoon sunlight. "Beg pardon?"

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Sanerontheinside for the ways to say "I Love You" drabble meme. Angst ahoy!
> 
> _"Over and over again, till it’s nothing but a senseless babble."_  
>   
> 

"I love him, I—love him, l-love—" 

Obi-Wan was bleeding out faster than he could speak, and much faster than Xanatos could scream over the comm for Theed’s medics to _Hurry! For fuck’s sake, faster! Faster!_

"I love h-I—I…" Obi-Wan’s eyes were growing blearier, wet and directionless. Just his lips moved now, in small, repetitive, twitching motions as pink froth bubbled up instead of his voice. _I love him, love him, love—_

"Shh, I know, little brother, I know you do," Feemor crooned softly, and inched up on his elbows where he lay next to the padawan. He had one hand pressed against the gaping ‘saber wound in Obi-Wan’s side, the other wrapped around the back of his head— _swelling bleeding from ears uneven pupil dilation probable closed skull-fracture_ —to cushion it from the durasteel floor. He dropped his own head, then, whispering directly into Obi-Wan’s ear, "But you must stay alive to tell him, brother. You must keep breathing to live. Just keep breathing…"  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An angsty AU where Qui-Gon stays with Anakin, and Master Feemor, Knight Xanatos, and Padawan Kenobi fight Maul heyoooooo. (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Wars + Trainspotting + All of the Angst™. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Also, Trainspotting, so, you know. Drug use.

* * *

  


_I would have died, if it meant you had a greater chance to survive._

Three major cartels and a forty-billion credit spice industry that spanned half the galaxy, and at least a quarter of the Galactic Senate. All blown open by a ragged voice on one, encrypted transmission issued directly to the Jedi High Council. The message had contained nothing but a litany of names, titles, and coordinates—recited by an operative buried two-years deep in the underworld, so far down that he’d become a mission unto himself, after all else was said and done. The close-out mission. An _extraction_ , months in the making and hunting. 

It would end tonight in Cloud City’s red-light district, just on the other side of an unmarked durasteel door and one thick-armed Bothan. 

The bouncer’s large eyes flicked up and down, bored, skeptical of this drab figure standing before her. "Welcome to the Lustfor Club," she rumbled, "Whazzuh passcode?" 

Qui-Gon nudged his robe back to reveal the lightsaber at his hip. "Judicial." 

The creature blinked once, twice, then punched the control panel and backed out of the Jedi’s path. She had fled into the night before the door was fully shut again. 

Inside, the air was thick, dark with spicy smoke that curled high into the draped, tent-like ceiling. The whole, suffocating nightclub pulsed with disorienting, red low-lights timed to a heavy bass-beat. Qui-Gon found his way easily through piles of silken floor pillows and foggy, blissed-out patrons, though, guided by the Force and a singular mote of light within it. 

His target was one wasted, rail-thin body tangled among the many. Pale and still, shadowed with pinprick-marks and bruises, copper hair shaved down to his skull—but a body still as familiar to Qui-Gon as his own. He’d trained it to its powerful and elegant heights, once, long before it was eaten into bones by chemicals and hardship and appetite-suppressing stims. 

A used hyposyringe crunched beneath Qui-Gon’s boot as he knelt down, pressing his cold fingers under the man’s jaw to search for a pulse. He finally caught it, erratic and thready, and he thought his heart might tear itself to pieces in relief and a whole new set of fears. 

"Obi-Wan." 

_I would die for you still, if I had to choose, Qui-Gon._

Obi-Wan didn’t respond, but the young woman curled up under his arm did. She was young and pretty, with a thin crust of blood on her nose, and she lifted her head enough to blink up at Qui-Gon with sleepy, smudged eyes. "Who’re you?" 

The Jedi gestured at Obi-Wan and sat back on his heels. "What is he on?" 

She frowned and curled a strangely protective hand over Obi-Wan’s arm. "Why? You his da or something?" 

Qui-Gon’s gaze hardened, and the woman relented with a loose shrug. Her heavy jewelry clanked as she shifted to tick off her fingers, "Slick tabs, pyrodene, spice poppers. _Bennie_ —" she smacked at the flat of his stomach, "What’d else you take, Bennie?" 

"Hm?" Obi-Wan finally stirred, arching up into a long, supine stretch that might have been provocative, if it hadn’t pulled the deep valleys of his ribcage into stark relief. 

Qui-Gon watched impassively, rooted into stillness by the voice he hadn’t heard in over two years–thinking that if he _breathed_ too hard, these last few, fragile pieces of Obi-Wan Kenobi might crumble into dust and blow away into the galaxy again, lost for good this time. 

"Oh, Leti," Obi-Wan breathed out, rubbing his cheek into his satiny pillow, eyes still closed. He curled his bare toes into the rich fabric beneath him and slid his feet up and down just for the sensation of it. "I was dreaming…" He rucked his thin t-shirt up, brushing his knuckles over his own flushed, stim-electrified skin. "Touch me?" 

_I would never want that for you, Padawan. Never. Do you understand?_

Leti laughed and glided her palm up and down the severe line of Obi-Wan’s side, with a warm familiarity that made Qui-Gon’s stomach twist. She smiled at Qui-Gon around sharp, gold-tipped teeth. "He goes just _mad_ for uppers." Her gaze flicked back down and she wiggled her finger in Obi-Wan’s bellybutton. "That big man wants to know what’s got you flying, Bennie." 

"Mmm," Obi-Wan hummed. "Who?" 

Qui-Gon’s voice was hard, when it finally came. "Knight Kenobi." 

_Not padawan._

The name landed like a crack across Obi-Wan’s face. His eyes shot open, red-rimmed and blown wide as they struggled to focus. "Ma- _Master?_ " 

_Sith-Killer._

Qui-Gon pushed his hood back. He was already running through a mental tally of his shuttle’s limited medical supplies, and finding it grossly lacking in the grim face of acute narcotics withdrawal. "The mission is complete," he stated simply. "You have been recalled to the Temple." 

For a moment, something horrible, sober and sickened, flickered across Obi-Wan’s gaunt face. "I had to," he croaked, voice cracking on the last word. "I—had to do it. Master, ple—" 

Leti swallowed up Obi-Wan’s pleas when she pitched over and kissed him, grasping his jaw hard enough to bruise. She’d dropped a tab of something that popped and fizzled on the tip of her tongue, and she pushed it into Obi-Wan’s mouth, all in the span of a breath. 

Obi-Wan jerked in surprise, then struggled to pull away until the very moment the little pill dissolved and Leti drew back, bright and expectant. "Oh…" he whispered, low and reverential, his body slowly going relaxed, pliant. He let his eyes drift shut and pressed the backs of his fingers over his mouth, licking away the traces of the stimulant. "Yes, alright…" 

Leti bit her lip as she dipped her thumb into the familiar, _always-so-beloved_ dimple of Obi-Wan’s chin. "You know I hate it when you get sad, Bennie—" 

" _Enough_ ," Qui-Gon snarled, all his worry and guilt and relief beginning to sublimate into a chilling, directionless anger. He pried Leti’s hand off Obi-Wan’s face. "We’re leaving." 

_Do you understand me, Obi-Wan?_

Obi-Wan moaned softly, already half-delirious as his expression slackened under the fresh rush of the euphoriant. "I’d really rather not," he drawled, sinking into his high body and soul, eyes skittering back and forth behind closed lids. 

Qui-Gon jerked Obi-Wan’s thin shirt back down, gathering in his sprawling limbs, readying him to be hauled bodily out of the club. "You don’t have a choice in the matter," he bit out. 

_I… understand perfectly._

Obi-Wan hummed under his breath, then laughed a bit, darkened eyes fluttering open. "But you did, didn’t you?" He reached up and pressed his fingertips against Qui-Gon’s lips. Obi-Wan’s skin tasted floral and artificially sweet, and left a tingling heat that ignited copper and green sparks across the Jedi’s vision. 

_I wish you the best, Master Jinn, in your continued recovery, and with–with–_

Obi-Wan gazed up at Qui-Gon with a strange, empty smile. "You chose Anakin, so I chose _life_."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Skyywalkerfen, "100 Angsty dialogue prompts" challenge.
> 
>  
> 
> _How is it that we always end up in this predicament?_  
> 

* * *

  


_'What’s the term for a grouping of two or more high-level British intelligence agents?’_

Quinn rolls over onto his back with a groan. Cracks his jaw, and regrets it when it hurts all the way up to his ears. He squints gritty-eyed into the morning sunlight. "How is it that we always end up in this predicament?" he asks the ceiling, pained. 

Ben stills where he’s seated on the edge of the mattress, fingers hovering at his throat for a moment. " _You_ came to _me_ ," he says over his shoulder, "and it’s not a predicament." He finishes buttoning his shirt. He’s picked a crisp white one, paired with a slate-blue summer-weight suit and tortoiseshell glasses. The outfit is striking against his copper hair and green eyes, but he already knows that. 

"It’s becoming one," Quinn mutters, watching Ben hawkishly. He knows he looks like a disaster by comparison, in his awkward sprawl across the bed, still naked but for dirty bandages and the swathe of bruising mottled black and purple down his ribcage. Bloody scrapes and scratches, too. The ones on his torso are incidental, from last night’s tumble down a concrete stairwell in Islington; the ones on his back and thighs are intentional, come afterwards in the midnight darkness of Ben’s flat. 

"Not if we don’t allow it." 

They both know it’s a pathetic cop-out of a response, but it works anyway and keeps Quinn quiet for now. 

"Lock the front door on your way out, please," Ben says, eyeing the pile of bloodied clothes on the bedroom floor. No gun this time—Quinn had lost it over a rooftop. They’d had words about that. "And don’t hard-reset the biometric scanner," he adds. "The cleaning lady is coming this afternoon, and I’d rather she not get tased at the outset." 

"I apologized for that ages ago," Quinn counters with a raised eyebrow. His voice is soft, though, almost gentle. He shifts against the pillows. "I could just climb out your bedroom window," he offers. "Same in, same out." 

"Please don’t." Ben nearly smiles. The tells are in the crinkling lines of his eyes and the way his lips press together, as if he’s trying to hold everything in. It’s enough for Quinn to reach out and tug at the back of Ben’s shoulder-holster, one finger hooked around the soft leather. 

Ben acquiesces and leans down for the kiss, bringing with him that faint, familiar smell: toothpaste, bergamot aftershave, gun oil. Quinn wants to sink his fingers into the man’s shirt, bury his face in Ben’s neck and Ben’s scent, drag him back into bed and sleep for a _week_. He doesn’t, though. He says nothing and just accepts the last bit of intimacy Ben will spare him in daylight. 

Their kiss is damp and close-lipped, and Ben draws away first. "You’re alive, you bloody madman," he murmurs against Quinn’s mouth, the same thing he always says on difficult mornings like this. Ben clears his throat and stands, then, his expression shuttered. 

Quinn just watches him. 

Ben does up his navy tie in the dresser mirror, checks the safety on his Beretta 418, and neatly holsters it. Then he slips into his suit jacket, fixes the top button, smooths it all down, and leaves Quinn without another word exchanged between them. 

' _…A predicament.’_


End file.
